A toast to Provence

Friends have a house in Provence, near the foot of Mont Ventoux. Even in a region so full of charm and grace, it is an exceptional spot. Although nothing visible dates from earlier than the 18th century, the house is in the midst of olive groves and there has been a farm dwelling for centuries. I suspect that one would find medieval masonry in the foundations. Beginning life as a simple farmhouse, it has been bashed about, added to and poshed up. On the western side, the exterior has pretensions to grandeur. The other elevation is more feminine; you expect to find Fragonard painting a girl on a swing.

At this season, the parasols act as the drawing room. There is a pool, and there were expeditions to Nîmes, Orange and Avignon. But it was also pleasant to read a book while occasionally looking up beyond the oleanders to the heights of Ventoux. On some evenings we saw shooting stars. Pleiades, the stars are known as, and everything in Provence calls Ronsard to mind. Here, carpe diem is a pleasure and a commandment.

Within fig-gathering reach of the house is an enchanting garden, and its kitchen plots almost yield more than the inhabitants can eat. This is the realm of Ceres. Provence ought to have such a tutelary goddess because the Romans created it: Provincia Romana. Was that not the greatest civilising mission in the history of imperialism, surpassing anything that even we British achieved? The conquerors do not only deserve credit for their buildings, but for the Romanesque architecture which they inspired. Modern Provence is a Franco-Roman flowering: Roman genius and discipline, the bounty of nature — and French peasant cunning. It is an irresistible combination; Julius Caesar meets Père Goriot (but if poor old Goriot had lived in Provence he would have softened and there would have been no story).